


sweet dreams (aren't) made of this

by aghamora



Series: Flaurel Ficlets [42]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Nightmares, Pregnancy, Satire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:22:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8476975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: In which all of season three was just one of Laurel’s crazy pregnancy fever dreams.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because this is how I cope with the state of canon. By pretending it was all a dream.
> 
> Onward...,,,,

Frank is awakened by rustling on the bed beside him. A lot of rustling.

Followed by a very swift, _very_ forceful knee in the back.

“Jesus, Laurel,” he grunts, rolling over to face her where she lays beside him. “What the f-”

He falls silent when he realizes she’s dreaming – or, well, having a nightmare seems much more likely. She’s tossing and turning madly, limbs flailing about, eyebrows knitted together, features screwed up and contorted, fitful in slumber. And he’s seen Laurel have nightmares before, after Sam, after everything, any normal sane person would – but this one is different. Worse than usual, he can tell, because he knows her nightmares inside out, knows them like they’re his own and can generally judge their intensity.

And this one is particularly bad.

She kicks the sheets back, murmuring something intelligible under her breath, voice thick with tears. He can see her forehead gleaming, soaked with sweat, and she makes a sort of whimper; a frantic, panicked little sound that tugs on his heart strings, makes him frown.

“Hey,” he places his hand on her shoulder, shaking her lightly. “Hey, Laurel, wake up.”

“No-” she croaks, her voice a plea, still trapped in that hell with her eyes closed. “No… he’s-”

He gives her another shake – harder this time. “ _Hey_.”

Finally her eyes shoot open wide, the whites almost quadrupled in size, and she sucks in a sharp breath as she comes awake, going stiff and still on the bed, looking around, before finally settling her gaze on him and relaxing.

“Frank,” she sputters, eyes glazing over with tears. “Oh Frank-”

“Hey, it was just a dream,” he soothes, voice raspy with sleep, moving closer, stroking her hair with one hand and letting her curl against him, suddenly so small and scared and childlike. “It was just a dream, I’m here. I’m here.”

She trembles, shaking her head, looking almost like she’s not quite sure he’s real. “I… Oh God, Frank, it was awful…”

“It’s over,” he says, voice low, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it, then the palm, steady and sure. “It’s over now, okay? It wasn’t real.”

“It felt so real,” she insists. “You… you left. You were gone, for _months_ , all summer… and when you came back-” She inhales sharply, struggling to slow her breathing. He places a hand on her cheek, listening intently. Laurel gulps. “You’d… shaved. Your beard. And your head.”

Frank half-wants to laugh, but she looks so genuinely distraught that he refrains, bites it back.

“And I was… sleeping with Wes. A-and somehow I knew you’d had sex with Bonnie – oh _God_ ,” she continues, her words all jumbled together. “You were on the run. Just… killing people, everywhere, for no reason. And then you came back, and-”

“Slow down, Laurel-”

“And I… told Wes I loved him. And I don’t even know _why_ , it didn’t… make sense. And you heard me,” she keeps going, chest rising and falling rapidly. She looks at him and her eyes search his face desperately, as if reaffirming that he’s not going to disappear at any second. “And then there was a fire, Annalise’s house burned down, and you… y-you died. You were under a sheet and you _died_ -”

“I didn’t,” he urges, propping himself up on his elbow, leaning over her. He furrows his brow, urging her chin upward so that she meets his eyes. “I didn’t, okay? I’m here. None ‘a that was real.”

“But it… it felt so real,” she insists, rolling over onto her side slightly to face him. She sniffles, not crying outright but looking damn close to it, and so he scoots closer, tugs her nearer so she can feel the warmth of him, know it’s real. Know _he’s_ real. “It seemed like it was never gonna end.”

“’S over now,” he draws, sleepily, and caresses her cheek idly with the pad of his thumb, swiping a lone tear away. “Just a dream.” He gives her a smile, taking her hand and kissing it again. “This is all real now, okay? All real.”

A moment passes, in silence, and finally Laurel lets out a breath, deflating and melting back against the mattress and shrinking. Finally she slows her breath and calms herself, losing herself in the feeling of his thumb, caressing the space between her own thumb and her forefinger tenderly, watching her like he never intends to let her out of his sight, ever. _Or_ do any of things dream-him had done, in a million years.

Dream-him sounds like one hell of a mess, as a matter of fact.

“So,” he says after a minute, eyebrows raised, “I shaved?”

She gives a watery laugh, and nods. “Yeah. Your beard. And you gave yourself a buzz.” He almost grimaces. That gets another laugh out of her, more free and deep this time. “It looked so bad.”

“Aw, what?” he teases, cocking his head to one side. “Don’t think I could pull it off?”

“You absolutely could _not_ , you looked like a skinhead.”

“You know I’d never shave,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder. “That’s how you shoulda known it wasn’t real right off the bat. There are some lines even _I_ won’t cross.” He smiles, and winks at her. “Beard’s never goin’ anywhere. Promise.”

“Good,” she laughs softly, running a hand through his hair and biting her lip. “I’m glad.”

She shifts slightly, onto her back. And that’s when Frank reaches down, hand creeping to her middle, and settles it over the bump growing there, larger by the day; almost six-months gone now, riding up her tank top so that a hint of her underbelly peeks out from beneath. He cradles it for a moment, heart swelling, _all_ of him swelling all over with so much love he doesn’t know quite what to do with it, and smiles, pecking her on the shoulder again, hoping it carries across, hoping she can feel how completely, utterly much he _loves_ right then.

“Toldja,” he murmurs, eyes dancing. “Kid’s been cookin’ up all sorts of wacko dreams and sendin’ ‘em your way.”

“Well, tell him to knock it off. I’m already not gonna be sleeping when he gets here. Let me sleep for now at least.”

Frank shrugs, sheepish, running his fingers over the bulge, over her skin, imagining the tiny press of feet and tiny fluttering heartbeat beneath his fingertips. “He’s got an active imagination growin’ away in there. Can’t blame him.”

“That was horrible, though. Me and _Wes_. And God, you and _Bonnie_.”

He cringes. “Well, least we were even, huh?”

“It was awful,” she snorts, dissolving into laughter. “Oh my God it was so _bad_.”

“This some kinda hint? You thinkin’ about replacin’ me with the Puppy?”

“Never,” she laughs, and pulls him in for a kiss. “Never ever in a million years.”

“Glad to hear it. Now c’mon. Let’s go back to sleep – without the kicking me in the back part, this time.”

“Yeah, well,” she quips, rolling over onto her side away from him so that he can hold her from behind, wrap his arms around her. She yawns, low and long, voice muffled by the pillow, “now you know what _I_ feel like when _your_ son keeps me up all night competing in my uterus’s World Cup.”

“He’ll settle down ‘ventually,” Frank mutters, lying down beside her, his hand coming to rest on her swelling stomach once more. “I can always sing to him, if you want. Whenever you need.”

She scoffs. “What, and scar him for life before he even comes out? No thanks.”

“You love it,” he purrs, pressing a kiss to her hair.

And he can’t see her face but he knows she’s smiling, big and wide and toothy, that smile he’s always loved. Her voice is soft, when she speaks, like she’s on the brink of drifting off and he thinks she is, toeing that fine line between consciousness and slumber. “Mmm. Maybe I do… maybe I don’t.”

“Well,” he says, softly, “ _I_ love you.”

She laughs softly, sweetly. Just a little tired burst of a sound. “Love you too. Now… shut up and lemme sleep.”

And Frank obeys with a smirk, and falls asleep again just like that, hand on her stomach, arm curled around her. Holding her. Holding the both of them. 


End file.
